by Lucy Lord
‘How was I to know?’ India sounded sulky again. ‘I mean, she looks like she dresses from charity shops. I wouldn’t immediately associate her with film stars.’
‘Hey, can you stop being so rude about my friend?’ said Summer.
‘Sorry, sorreeee.’ India looked as if she might be about to cry and Summer felt awful for her, despite everything. It couldn’t be easy, being married to such a detestable man. ‘I’m not myself tonight,’ India added, trying to pull herself together.
‘You could do with a bit more meat on your bones, for one thing,’ said Jamie. ‘Just look at you.’ He prodded one of India’s thin brown shoulders, protruding out of her exquisite pale yellow chiffon Alberta Ferretti cocktail dress. ‘I know I told you not to let yourself get fat, but you didn’t have to lose your tits too.’
‘I cannot tell you how much I hate you,’ India said slowly. She turned to the table at large and added, ‘I wish my boy had a nicer father.’
There was silence, punctuated by a couple of nervous giggles. The Cavendishes were clearly out of their tiny minds on something, all normal awareness of what was acceptable to say in public long gone. Summer was pretty sure she knew what they’d been taking and who’d given it to them.
‘For all I know, he does,’ Jamie drawled back. ‘Little sod doesn’t look anything like me, and you never could keep your legs closed. Before you got old, of course. No one would touch you with a bargepole now.’
‘Jamie, that’s enough,’ said David. ‘Don’t say things you’ll regret in the morning.’
‘Are you telling me what I can and can’t say to my own wife? I don’t take orders from jumped-up little Jews. Oh, fuck the lot of you. This is one of the most boring evenings I’ve ever had. I’m going out to have some fun.’ Jamie downed his champagne in one and stalked away from the beautiful table in its fabulous location, up the whitewashed walkway and into the night. In the silence that followed, the waves lapping at the rocks below sounded much, much louder.
India sat stone-still for about half a minute before bursting into tears. Summer leapt up, ran around and put her arm around the other woman’s thin, shaking shoulders.
‘I hate him so much,’ India sobbed. ‘How did I end up married to such a bastard?’
‘He’s had too much to drink, that’s all,’ Summer said, trying to soothe her. She didn’t want to defend Jamie Cavendish but reckoned it was the kindest course of action at this stage of the evening.
‘Yeah, and the rest of it,’ India snorted through her tears. ‘Thanks, Summer, but you don’t have to defend him. I know he’s a complete cunt – he’s probably gone off to some hooker bar in San Antonio, and you must think I’m mad for staying with him, but’ – her shoulders sagged – ‘it’s not that simple.’
‘Surely—’
‘It’s OK. Go and sit down. I’ll be fine after another line, but the bastard’s got our stash. Jorge . . .?
The look of panic that flashed across Jorge’s handsome face gave Summer a brief moment of satisfaction. Most of the people at the table knew about his ‘other job’ but he didn’t like it being made quite so public.
Jorge was one of the most popular dealers on the island. And on an island like Ibiza, that meant a very tidy income indeed.
At that moment, Aqua’s proprietor, Shane Connelly, arrived, strolling down the whitewashed walkway towards them, his six-foot-four frame elegant in white jeans and an open-necked white shirt. Summer, watching from her seat next to David, was glad to see him. Shane was a sweetheart as far as she was concerned, and even better looking at the age of fifty-one than he’d been in his Eighties heyday (she’d seen the photos), when his starring role in an Australian soap opera had given him international fame and legions of fans. Then, he’d had a mop of surfer-boy blond hair; now, incipient baldness had compelled him to shave it all off, with impressive results. His high cheekbones, fierce jawline, piercing blue eyes and muscular physique made him a hit both at the gay gym in Ibiza Town and also with the island’s beautiful people.
After earning heaps of dosh, as he’d termed it, back in the day, Shane had moved to Ibiza in the Nineties, come out, opened his first bar in San Antonio – ‘the horror’ as he now felt allowed to be camp enough to describe it – and lived high on the hog ever since.
‘Everything bonza?’ It had been his old catchphrase on the soap.
‘This is fabulous, Shane,’ said Summer, putting her fork to the side of her plate. ‘Tell me the secret of the stuffing, pleeeease?’ The sea bass had been stuffed with a mixture of herbs, citrus zest and nuts, which sounded a bit Christmassy for late spring, but somehow tasted summery due to the lightness of the chef’s touch.
‘If I told you I’d have to kill you.’ Everybody laughed, sycophantically. ‘Anyway, I don’t know. Ask Juan. I’m only the boss.’
‘OK, fair enough,’ said Summer, smiling. ‘I will. It wouldn’t do you too much harm, would it, Shane, if I leaked one of Juan’s delicious recipes? Nobody will be able to make it nearly as well as he does, so they’ll all be flocking here. Win win!’
‘Win win, indeed,’ grinned Shane, high-fiving her. ‘My clever Swedish doll.’
He walked around the table and sat in the seat recently vacated by Jamie Cavendish. ‘So what do we think, guys? Is Aqua gonna be a hit?’
‘Everything is exquisite,’ said Gabriella, gesticulating in a pleasingly Italian manner. ‘Look . . .’ She indicated the table, the surroundings, the sea below, with a waft of her graceful hand. ‘Listen . . .’ Such was her magnetism that even the ghastly Russian oligarchs stopped shouting for a bit and listened, yet again, to the sound of the sea lapping the rocks. ‘Taste . . .’ She took a bite of her stuffed sea bass. ‘Ambrosia from heaven – and whatever you say, Summer, I do not think you can replicate it.’
Summer shrugged good-naturedly, smiling. ‘Surely that is what I said?’
Gabriella continued. ‘Smell!’ As one, the people sitting around the table inhaled, getting a lovely mixture of ozone and delicate herbs. ‘And feel . . .’ This time she clutched her heart in a dramatic yet tongue-in-cheek swoon. ‘You, Shane, have created one of the best sensory experiences Ibiza has ever seen!’
‘And you, Gaby, are one of the coolest birds I’ve ever met.’
Gabriella gave a smiling half-bow.
‘I think it’ll be a great success,’ said Summer. ‘I’ll give you a glowing write-up – as well as leaking a couple of Juan’s recipes.’
‘Cheers, babe.’
‘What you need is celebrity endorsement,’ said Jorge, his eyes lighting up. ‘Jack Meadows and Tamara Gold will be here in July, and some of us are going to meet them! We could . . .’
‘Hey, Jorge, don’t get carried away,’ said Summer. ‘We don’t know for sure that they’ll be going to Bella’s party yet.’
‘Jack Meadows and Tamara Gold?’ Shane said thoughtfully. He had his fair share of celebrity friends, but it would certainly be a coup if Hollywood’s golden couple was papped arriving at Aqua. He could even arrange a boat to deliver them to this table.
It was something to bear in mind.
Chapter 9
Natalia’s yacht was anchored about 200 metres offshore from St Tropez’s Pampelonne beach. It was small by the standards of some of the monstrous gin palaces that dotted the bay, but perfectly formed, all shiny polished oak, gleaming brass fittings and navy and white linen upholstery. Natalia, Ben, Poppy and Damian had finished lunch – salade Niçoise washed down with several bottles of chilled rosé wine – and were now relaxing happily around the large round table on the boat’s rear deck.
‘Merci, Jacques.’ Natalia smiled as a member of her crew came to clear their plates away.
‘That was delicious. Thanks, Nat,’ said Poppy. ‘This is the life.’ She stretched her limbs out happily in the afternoon sun.
‘It certainly is,’ smiled Ben. ‘We’ve come a long way from the valleys.’ He could only utter such a sentiment among close friends; his public image now was posh, posh, p
osh.
‘The valleys seem a lifetime away,’ concurred Damian, who had grown up with Ben in Wales – two small boys who’d pledged to be best friends for life. He had always wanted to be a writer, and Ben, pretty little show-off, had always wanted to act. It seemed almost inconceivable that they’d both done it, so successfully, and were at the top of their respective games now.
Both men were wearing Vilbrequin swimming trunks and not much else. Damian – dark, lithe and graceful – reminded Poppy of a panther. Ben, who was taller, blonder and with much broader shoulders, was the lion. She wouldn’t trade them for the world – she had, once, and it had been the biggest mistake of her life.
‘Kiev seems several lifetimes ago,’ said Natalia, with a bleak expression in her eyes.
‘Oooh look!’ squeaked Poppy, pointing over in the direction of their nearest enormous gin palace. It was close enough to be able to see exactly what was going on, on board. ‘He’s taken his trunks off! Oh yuck . . .’
Its owner was an enormously fat, mahogany-tanned, elderly man with several gold chains nestling in abundant grey chest hair. Every other person on board was young, female and topless.
‘Do you think they all have to service him?’ Poppy was watching in fascinated horror as one of the girls stood up, revealing high young buttocks bisected by a tiny gold thong, and started to rub oil into the billionaire’s fleshy shoulders.
‘No, some of them only have to look decorative,’ said Natalia with authority. ‘Not all of them will be hookers.’
‘What are they then?’
‘Good-time girls, party girls . . .’
‘Isn’t that the same thing? Pretty bloody shameless at any rate . . .’ Poppy regretted the words as soon as they came out of her mouth.
‘For most of them it is the chance of a lifetime to experience such luxury.’ Natalia’s Ukrainian accent surfaced whenever she was irritated. ‘If all they have to do is sit around with their tops off, probably it doesn’t seem too much hardship.’
‘I’d do it,’ said Ben.
‘Yeah, but you’re a total man tart!’ said Poppy, and they all laughed, relieved. It was slightly awkward talking to Natalia about things like this. Nobody referred to her past directly, but there it lurked, elephantine on occasion.
‘Anyone fancy a cognac?’ asked Ben. ‘Yacht, St Tropez . . . Silly not to . . .?’
‘Go on then, boyo,’ said Damian happily. He had reecntly sold his third screenplay and couldn’t be more pleased with life. He was rich beyond his wildest imaginings, married to the beautiful woman he had loved for years, slightly drunk on a yacht in the Med, with the sun beating down on his bare shoulders. It was a good combination, by anybody’s standards.
‘Not for me,’ said Poppy. ‘I do fancy a swim, though. Anyone else?’
The other three shook their heads, and she walked, slightly unsteadily, to the edge of the boat. Holding her nose, she leapt off, landing with a splash in the deep blue sea. They smiled over at her as her golden head popped back out.
‘The water’s gorgeous!’ Poppy waved and went under again, in the direction of the gin palace.
‘I think I shall take a small nap,’ said Natalia. ‘I want to be well rested for dealing with The Bitch.’ The plan was to join Tamara and Jack at Nikki Beach later that afternoon. ‘Enjoy your cognac, boys.’
She kissed them both and went down the polished steps to her cabin.
Ben opened the cognac and they both heaved a happy sigh. Man time.
‘Cheers.’ They clinked balloon glasses, the amber liquid glowing in the late afternoon sun. After sitting in companionable silence for a few seconds, Ben turned to Damian.
‘Mate. There’s something I need to discuss with you.’
Damian raised his eyebrows. ‘Sounds ominous.’
‘No, not really, but I can’t talk about it in front of Nat – she’d flip.’
‘Jesus Christ, Ben, what – or should I say who – have you done now?’
‘I haven’t done anything!’ Ben raised his arms, a mock-hurt look on his face. ‘Fantastic that you assume I’ve done something wrong . . .’
‘Well, you do have form . . .’ Damian was referring to Ben’s fling with Poppy and they both knew it.
‘Yeah, yeah I know. Touché, you cunt. But I’m a changed man now.’
‘What’s the problem then?’
‘Tamara’s been coming on to me.’
Damian grimaced. ‘Awkward.’
‘Yes, very.’
‘Are you sure though? She’s a bloody flirt with everyone.’
Ben rolled his eyes. ‘I do know that. It drives Nat crazy when she sits on my knee and talks in that stupid baby voice. No, I would definitely class her recent behaviour as beyond the acceptable bounds of friendship.’
Damian grinned. ‘I’m intrigued now.’
‘Well . . .’ Ben drew it out. ‘Do you remember that day at Coachella when Nat stayed at the villa and we all got wasted?’
‘Fun day.’ Damian grinned again.
‘Yeah,’ Ben grinned back. ‘Anyway – remember how, before we got wasted, Tamara was playing up to the cameras with Jack, doing her loved-up "Jamara" act?’ Damian nodded. ‘Well, act is exactly what it was. She groped my balls at the bar.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yeah. And it gets worse.’ Ben picked his phone up from the table, tapped the screen several times and then gave it to Damian.
‘Double shit. Fucking hell, mate. She’s taking a massive risk.’ He was looking at a pair of amazingly firm, round, naked young breasts. ‘I’m assuming they’re hers?’
Ben nodded. ‘She sent the message this morning.’
‘She must be barking mad,’ Damian laughed. ‘Nice rack, though.’
‘So, do I tell Jack or not?’
‘Hmmm. Tricky one.’ Damian took a swig of cognac and looked out to where Poppy was frolicking in the sea, doing underwater backwards somersaults. ‘I don’t think you should, at this stage. She’s pretty fucked up, and you know what they say about shooting the messenger. Probably better just to hope she sorts herself out.’
‘That’s what I was thinking. I wouldn’t want him to think I’ve done anything to encourage her. I mean, it’s not as if I can help being irresistible.’
‘You are one vain cunt, Ben Jones.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know. So what do I do?’
‘Tell her it’s not on, and if she doesn’t stop, you’ll tell Jack.’
‘Yeah, sounds about right.’ Ben took a contemplative sip of cognac.
‘I do think you should tell Natalia, though. Surely honesty’s always the best policy, and – for once – you haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘You are joking, right? Nat can’t stand Tamara as it is – this would make things completely impossible between us all. She’d definitely tell Jack. And even though Tamara is madder than a box of frogs, I do quite like her. No – trust me on this one. I know Nat, and some things are best kept quiet.’
*
Nikki Beach was the flashiest, glitziest bar on Pampelonne Beach. Even though Club 55, the original St Tropez beach bar, which dated back to 1955, was infinitely cooler and chicer, the wildest, most hedonistic, bling-tastic parties now all seemed to be held at its newer rival. Today was no exception. The large terrace surrounding the smallish, turquoise pool thronged with beautiful people – some lounging on enormous white linen-upholstered daybeds, sipping cocktails or rosé wine from white glass goblets, others roaring with mirth as they sprayed one another with vastly overpriced champagne. Palm trees were festooned with hot pink and orange garlands – a cheerful sight under the unblemished denim-blue sky.
The next stop on their sybaritic Mediterranean jolly was Ibiza, but for the time being the Côte d’Azur was suiting them just fine.
Tamara and Jack were holding court at the bar, surrounded by sycophantic admirers. Tamara was wearing a tiny leopard-print Melissa Odabash bikini with scarlet satin ribbon ties that matched both her lipstick
and the glossy varnish on her fingers and toes. Her chocolate-brown hair fell in lustrous waves to her shoulders, and a large diamond sparkled in her navel, drawing attention to her flat, lightly muscled stomach and tiny waist. As she twinkled and charmed those around her, flirting and cracking filthy and surprisingly hilarious jokes, nobody could have guessed the turmoil churning inside her.
Why the fuck had she sent Ben that photo of her tits? The longer she went without receiving a response, the more panicky she became. She had been sure he’d reply instantly. How could he not want her? Everybody else did, and she was far hotter (and younger) than that dried-up old cow Natalia. But what if she’d been wrong? And – even worse – what if Ben told Jack?
Tamara’s latest act of recklessness was directly linked to some news she had received late the previous night. Her mom and dad had been on David Letterman, once again selling the story of their daughter’s troubled teenage years, milking their only child dry for profit as only they knew how. It had been beyond sickening to watch as they sat there holding hands, apparently as loved-up as the day they’d met, telling the world about Tamara’s most private and painful times.
No wonder I’m a screw-up, she thought bitterly. My parents have only ever seen me as a commodity. Years of therapy had encouraged her to use that sort of language when talking or thinking about herself.
She hated herself when she behaved this way. Sure, Ben was gorgeous – even more so than Jack – and she was certain that he’d be fantastic in the sack. But it wasn’t fair on Jack, whom she did love, deep down. She guessed she was trying to punish him for something, though she wasn’t sure what. Maybe it was because she had thought that being engaged to him would magically take away all the pain and resentment she’d been carrying around for so many years. When it didn’t, she acted in a manner deliberately calculated to appal him, were he ever to find out. But she didn’t want to be found out.
Jack, sitting on a stool next to her at the Polynesian-style bar, smiled his sweet smile and leaned over to ruffle her hair. Tamara felt guiltier than ever. He had seen how distraught she’d been last night, and had been gentle and loving with her all day, clearly proud of the way she was holding it together. He was looking tanned and handsome in his navy and white Tommy Hilfiger trunks, his curly black hair still damp from his last swim (he was one of the very few people to have used the pool that day, most – Tamara included – were far too concerned about their appearance even to countenance getting wet).